On entering, an intelligent, respectable-looking female, of lady-like manners, shook hands with and even kissed Lucy, who embraced her with much affection.

“My dear Mrs. Norton,” she said, “how much surprised you must feel at this abrupt and unseasonable visit.”

“How much delighted, you mean, my dear Miss Gourlay; and if I am surprised, I assure you the surprise is an agreeable one.”

“But,” said the innocent girl, “your servant told me that you did not live here, and I felt so much distressed!”

“Well,” replied Mrs. Norton, “she was right, in one sense:  if Mrs. Norton that was does not live here, Mrs. Mainwaring that is certainly does—­and feels both proud and flattered at the honor Miss Gourlay does her humble residence.”

“How is this?” said Lucy, smiling; “you have then—­”

“Yes, indeed, I have changed my condition, as the phrase goes; but neither my heart nor my affections to you, Miss Gourlay.  Pray sit down on this sofa.  Your maid, I presume, Miss Gourlay?”

“Yes,” replied Lucy; “and a faithful creature has she proved to me, Mrs. Nor—­” but I beg your pardon, my dear madam; how am I—­oh, yes, Mrs. Mainwaring!”

“Nancy,” said the latter, “take this young woman with you, and make her comfortable.  You seem exhausted.  Miss Gourlay; shall I get some tea?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nor—­Mainwaring, no; we have had a hasty cup of tea in Dublin.  But if it will not be troublesome, I should like to go to bed for a time.”

Mrs. Mainwaring flew out of the room, and called Nancy Gallaher.  “Nancy, prepare a bed immediately for this lady; her maid, too, will probably require rest.  Prepare a bed for both.”

She was half in and half out of the room as she spoke; then returning with a bunch of keys dangling from her finger, she glanced at Miss Gourlay with that slight but delicate and considerate curiosity which arises only from a friendly warmth of feeling—­but said nothing.

“My dear Mrs. Mainwaring,” said Lucy, who understood her look, “I feel that I have acted very wrong.  I have fled from my father’s house, and I have taken refuge with you.  I am at present confused and exhausted, but when I get some rest, I will give you an explanation.  At present, it is sufficient to say that papa has taken my marriage with that odious Lord Dunroe so strongly into his head, that nothing short of my consent will satisfy him.  I know he loves me, and thinks that rank and honor, because they gratify his ambition, will make me happy.  I know that that ambition is not at all personal to himself, but indulged in and nurtured on my account, and for my advancement in life.  How then can I blame him?”

“Well, my child, no more of that at present; you want rest.”

“Yes, Mrs. Mainwaring, I do; but I am very wretched and unhappy.  Alas! you know not, my dear friend, the delight which I have always experienced in obeying papa in everything, with the exception of this hateful union; and now I feel something like remorse at having abandoned him.”